


Tough Lovers, Hood Brothers

by Sad Cowboy Malone (NobleMalone)



Series: Kîyanaw [3]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Ass Play, Bottom Arthur, Breathplay, Chapter 4 Spoilers, Choking, Come as Lube, Come play, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Embarrassment Kink, Feminization, Fingerfucking, Humiliation, Light BDSM, M/M, Name-Calling, Outdoor Sex, PWP, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Sexual Fantasy, Soft Cowboys Being Soft, Spanking, Spoilers, Sub Arthur Morgan, Teasing, They're just two gay cowboys in love OK, gratuitous use of slurs, just chock full'a slurs, secret exhibitionism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-11-15 18:13:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18078503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NobleMalone/pseuds/Sad%20Cowboy%20Malone
Summary: Later, he’s washing up before dinner in the little tub behind the cook wagon, at the frustrated behest of Mrs Grimshaw – “Arthur, how are we even to know it’s you under all that filth?” –  when he catches Charles watching him. Not leering, just watching in the quiet, placid way Charles seems to watch things, the same way Arthur does when he draws; just observing, committing things to memory.When their eyes meet, Charles’s lips turn up at the corners, the slightest intimation of a smile, and he winks, the cocky bastard. Months ago when they’d met and Arthur had seen something spark in those kind eyes, he’d never imagined Charles would be so cruel as to tease him this way. Could never have imagined anything so relentlessly good as that.---Kîyanaw– Us, inclusive; you and me.





	Tough Lovers, Hood Brothers

**Author's Note:**

> Please be aware that while this fic is a happy, good old fashioned sex romp, there is a use of several slurs, including; faggot, slut, whore, queer, and invert.

Turns out, Arthur’d rolled back into Shady Belle just after Charles'd rolled out, missing him by mere minutes, moments, maybe. He’d told himself it weren’t a big deal; weren’t like after four long days of slogging through the bayou, up to his elbows in alligators and assholes, he couldn’t wait a couple hours more for Charles to come back around, for Charles to wrap himself over Arthur’s back and tug him, quick and cruel, to orgasm before tucking him in for a well deserved nap. Ain’t like he was hard for half the ride back to camp just thinking about it. Ain’t like he couldn’t wait a little longer.

 

 

He’d waited exactly three hours and twenty-seven minutes before he’d broke clean in two.

 

“John,” he’d begun, casually; had handed John a pinch of snuff as they’d stood at the gate, gazing out into the near-dark of evening. “You seen Charles roll through today?”

 

“What’d’you need him for?” John had asked in reply, even as he’d stuffed the snuff behind his bottom lip. If he’d known it was a bribe, he hadn’t let on – always had to be so damn _John_ about things.

 

“Need a word with him,” Arthur’d replied, without missing a beat. He’d known he’d have to dig for the information, had come prepared. “Feller owes me a favour and I need to collect.”

 

It weren’t even a lie; not really.

 

“Right.” John’d sounded unconvinced, but hadn’t pushed the issue.

 “I think Dutch sent Javier and him out to one of the plantations, see if they can’t scrounge up some information from the sharecroppers 'bout gettin' at that treasure he’s all fired up about.”

 

“Oh.” He’d tried not to sound disappointed.

 

“Won’t take more’n a couple days, probably. What’s he owe you for, anyhow?”

 

“Oh, you know,” Arthur said, deadpan. “Nothing special. Couple’a suck jobs, let him stick his fingers in my ass. The usual.”

 

The look John had given him at that was nothing short of bewildered, perhaps a little annoyed.  Damn stupid, whatever else it was, and it’d made Arthur laugh out loud.

 

“Fine then, keep your secrets,” John’d huffed, even as a small smile spread across his face. “But you got a screwed-up sense of humour, brother.”

 

 

 

Arthur'd had to wait another three days before Charles and Javier returned, safe but ultimately unsuccessful, and it’d been the longest three days of Arthur’s life, save maybe for the time he’d been the unwilling guest if the O’Driscoll gang.

 

He’s sitting on the front porch of the manor, chatting idly with Sadie, when Charles finally wanders over – it’d been hard not to go to him, kiss him silly as soon as he’d rode in, but Arthur’d managed – and gives them both a surly nod.

 

“Mrs Adler. Arthur.”

 

“Charles,” Arthur says; without prompting, hands over the cigarette on his lip. Watching Charles take a long, slow drag, their eyes locked; it’s almost as good as a kiss. “How’d you’n Javier get on?”

 

Charles sighs a lungful of smoke through pursed lips, and Arthur feels he might swoon, his whole body drawn towards Charles like a magnet, just wanting to be nearer to him. Their fingers touch when he hands the cigarette back.

 

“We didn’t learn a thing we didn’t already know.”

 

“Shit.”

 

“Anyway, I won’t keep you.” Charles lays a hand on Arthur’s shoulder and he wants nothing more than to draw that hand to his mouth, press a kiss to the warm, dry palm of it, take those thick fingers between his lips and suck.

 

Tries not to sound hopelessly desperate when he says “Talk more tonight?”

 

“Sure.” Charles’s smile is warm and fond and _everything_. He pats Arthur once on the shoulder before he turns to go.

“Mrs Adler,” he says with a nod as he leaves.

 

Arthur'd forgotten she was even there.

 

 

 

The midday heat is sweltering, and the humidity only serves to give the heat an oppressive, demanding quality, as if seeking to wring the sweat from Arthur’s skin as he swings the axe down on another piece of old wood. He’s got the top two buttons of his cotton shirt undone, but even that does little to keep him from sweating like a whore in church.

 

He mops his brow with his handkerchief, already soaked through with sweat, and when he opens his eyes, Charles is there, gazing at him with an amused intensity that makes Arthur feel a little naked.

 

“You just let your tits hang out for everybody to enjoy, _moniyasis_?”  His voice is soft and low and fond, but not without an edge that only Arthur knows is desire.

 

Arthur shrugs, hauls the axe up in a way he knows makes the muscles of his chest and arms flex and glide; the way Charles watches as he moves, like a man staring down a beast he means to tame, is thrilling, has his guts tightening up with the familiar feeling of undeniable arousal.

 

Charles doesn’t even blink at the loud cracking of wood as the axe falls to split a log in two.

 

“You ought to be careful,” Charles warns. “You walk around looking like that, people will start to think you’re easy.”

 

His dark eyes flicker from Arthur’s face to his groin and back; his tongue darts out to wet his lips in a way that makes Arthur’s heart beat fast and loud in his ears.

 

“A whore, even.”

 

With that, Charles smiles and winks, leaves Arthur standing there, axe in hand, with his cock stiff as a board in his trousers.

 

 

 

Arthur is hauling hay bales when he sees Charles next, sitting by the fire talking with – or rather, being talked to _by_ – Hosea, cleaning a rifle in his lap.

 

When he sees Arthur looking, his posture shifts, imperceptible to anyone not looking for it the way Arthur most certainly is. He sits up a little straighter in his chair, rolls and squares his shoulders in a way that accentuates the broad, thick expanse of them; he’s wearing that adorable, stupid blue chambray shirt with the polka-dots, the one that is pleasingly tight through the chest.

 

Arthur has always liked the way Charles is shaped, thick through the waist and hips in a way Arthur isn’t – it makes him feel small in comparison, waif-like and faggy in a way he enjoys but tries not to read too much into. Doesn’t mind so much, anyway, being a faggot; not now that he’s Charles’s faggot.

 

Charles moves the rifle from where it is in his lap to stand it, butt rested on the chair between his spread thighs, and gives Arthur a knowing look as he continues to clean – dark fist wrapped around the barrel, sliding the gun cloth down and then up in slow, deliberate strokes.

 

When Arthur bites his lip to keep whatever desperate noise he feels crawling up  his throat from escaping, Charles winks, swirls his hand around the tip of the rifles barrel.

 

Arthur hustles away towards the horses after that, before anyone can catch the way he’s flushed pink in the face or the uncomfortable bulge beneath his belt buckle.

 

 

 

Later, he’s washing up before dinner in the little tub behind the cook wagon, at the frustrated behest of Mrs Grimshaw – “Arthur, how are we even to know it’s _you_ under all that filth?” –  when he catches Charles watching him. Not leering, just watching in the quiet, placid way Charles seems to watch things, the same way Arthur does when he draws; just observing, committing things to memory.

 

When their eyes meet, Charles’s lips turn up at the corners, the slightest intimation of a smile, and he winks, the cocky bastard. Months ago when they’d met and Arthur had seen something spark in those kind eyes, he’d never imagined Charles would be so cruel as to tease him this way. Could never have imagined anything so relentlessly _good_ as that.

 

Arthur holds Charles's gaze with his own as he brings a hand up to pop the buttons on his shirt, opening it all the way down to his navel; Charles raises an eyebrow at him like a bemused question, even as his gaze flickers to the bared sliver of Arthur’s muscular chest, tempted in spite of his own bravado.

 

The temptation grows stronger when Arthur reaches into the wash basin, splashes cool water on his face and lets it run in little rivulets down the column of his neck to dribble down his chest.  He repeats the motion a couple of times, until his shirt is soaked and translucent and clinging to him almost obscenely.

 

Charles’s eyes are filled with a dark, hungry frustration, and his hands are folded in his lap to hide the erection Arthur knows he brought about. Even so, there’s an amused smile on his face that has Arthur entranced, watches that clever mouth form, quick and cautious, around a single word Charles doesn’t give voice to.

 

 _Slut_.

 

For a moment, Arthur feels weak in the knees, but otherwise, he considers the whole situation a resounding success on his part. The way Charles closes his eyes, surreptitiously pressing a hand to his groin as if he could will his stiffened cock away, is evidence of that.

 

But the victory, as hard-won as it is, is not without casualty – It takes Arthur a minute of awkward adjusting to arrange himself in his own trousers such that he can walk to the stew pot without making a scene.

 

 

Gathered about the campfire over dinner that evening, it’s just the men, and as so often happens when it’s just the men, the conversation inevitably turns to women.

 

“Bull fuckin' shit!” Bill hollers, accusatory, wagging his spoon in Micah’s face. “There ain’t no way one whore would turn down your money, nevermind _two_.”

 

“I swear, it’s all true,” Micah replies, hands raised in a placating gesture.

 

“No it ain’t,” Arthur mumbles through his last mouthful of stew – Micah’s boasting is ruining his good mood. “Even your own mama wouldn’t fuck you for free, Micah.”

 

The raucous laughter that follows drowns out Micah’s sneering, sputtering protestations, and when they fall silent again, he stays quiet.

 

The six or so of them sit in silence for a moment, listening to the distant sound of croaking of frogs and the crackle of the fire.

 

“I had a girl, once,” Charles begins, and when Arthur glances up, Charles is looking straight at him. He can feel himself blush just from the intensity of it.

“She would blush like a virgin at the drop of a hat, but God, was she dirty. Absolutely filthy.”

 

His voice is somber and serious in the way he is with the group at large, but Arthur can see that spark of something in his dark eyes.

 

“Her tits were the kind you can’t help but want to get your mouth on,” he continues. “She wasn’t shy about showing them off, either.”

 

He pauses, as if in thought for a moment; his gaze slides from Arthur’s flushing face, down his neck to the exposed flesh of his chest, and Arthur feels it, warm like a sunbeam. Surreptitiously, he tries to adjust himself in his pants even as Charles goes on.

 

“And she used to beg for it, too, I could hardly escape her. All hours of the day, begging me just to give her a little, just to let her suck me off. The sounds she’d make when she did it, you wouldn’t believe, like she was getting her own just from having me in her mouth.

“She’d even swallow, if I asked her to.”

 

“Bull shit!” Bill shouts again, breaking the entranced silence. “Ain’t no woman what likes sucking cock. You’re a liar, Smith.”

 

Charles just stands, brushes dust from his trousers, and shrugs. In the firelight his smile is boyish and full of mischief and Arthur is still entranced.

 

“Maybe.”

 

Without another word, Charles walks into the darkness of the encroaching night time, headed towards the back of the dilapidated manor.

 

Arthur makes it maybe three minutes before he excuses himself – “’Scuse me, fellers, I gotta take a leak,” – and follows, like a desperate, hungry beast.

 

 

 

He finds Charles just where he’d figured he’d be, leaned up against a tree round back of the house, smoking a cigarette – when he hears Arthur approaching, he flicks the butt away. It’s just as well, really, because as soon as Arthur is within reach he is grabbing Charles by the front of that adorable, stupid polka-dot shirt and hauling him in for a desperate, hungry kiss.

 

It’s rough, even as Charles brings his hands up to cup Arthur’s stubbled cheeks, a week and a day’s worth of pent up frustration vent through the crushing press of lips and the wet probing of tongues.

 

Charles lets it just be that for a while, lets Arthur’s hands roam frantically over his broad chest and shoulders, down his back to grab a handful of his ass; even lets Arthur press against him and rut like needy bitch against his hip, clumsy and wanton as he kisses his way down Charles’s neck.

 

Arthur think he could go off from just this, is starting to lose himself in it as he rolls his hips and groans into the soft skin of Charles’s shoulder, headed like a freight train towards his own orgasm. He doesn’t even care if he comes quick and easy in his pants like a kid, just wants to _come_ , wants Charles to let him come.

 

“Ch-charles, Charles, please,” he gasps, nearer to a whine than he’d like to admit – whatever it is, it seems to break the spell between them.

 

Charles’s hand on his neck is sudden and startling, just enough so that it gives Arthur a moment's pause, and that's all Charles needs; in the very next moment it’s Arthur with his back pressed up against tree and Charles looming over him, looking like a predator ready to devour his prey.

 

His hand is still on Arthur’s neck, pining him there, and when Arthur swallows, he can feel his adam’s apple slide under Charles’s palm.

 

“Say it _, nîwah_ ,” Charles demands, voice soft and menacing. “Tell me what you want.”

 

But when Arthur goes to answer, Charles increases the pressure and digs his fingers into the sides of Arthur’s neck, fingernails biting into him just the right side of painful. He can breathe, but barely, and his voice is trapped in his throat by Charles’s strong hand.

 

He realizes then how easy it would be for Charles to kill him, now, to simply wring the life from him with just one hand, but he isn’t afraid – he trusts Charles with his whole heart, and everything thereafter. There’s no one whose hands he’d rather have his life in.

 

Arthur’s hand is wrapped around Charles’s wrist as Charles applies a steady pressure to his neck; not trying to push him away at all, just holding on, like he needs that second point of contact just to stay grounded, to not float away with the light-as-air feeling of letting Charles overpower him.

 

Just as his vision starts to go spotty, Charles releases him – almost involuntarily, Arthur hauls in a deep, gasping breath, exudes it as a groan when Charles’s lips come to kiss at the soft spot below his ear, to bite at the place where his fingers had just been; those fingers now tasked with unbuttoning Arthur’s shirt, pushing it open to reveal the scarred expanse of his chest and stomach, to cruelly pinch and pull at his peaked nipples as Charles sucks bruises into his neck. 

 

“You liked it, didn’t you, _kiskânak_?” Charles asks, palming the firm muscle of Arthur’s chest with a grip hard enough to leave faint, finger-shaped bruises in the morning. “Teasing me all day, flashing your tits like a working girl, making me wait for it.”

 

Charles dips a hand to cup Arthur’s cock through his jeans, and Arthur can’t help but hiss a long, desperate “Yes.”

 

That makes Charles chuckle, and his grip tightens and tightens again, until Arthur is gasping, squirming away from the pressure even as his hands come up to tangle in the front of Charles’s shirt. The pressure, the almost-pain of it, makes him feel hot and prickly all over, the way Javier’s Mexican tequila does when he has too much.

 

“You want it bad. You’re so easy. Like a slut, desperate for it.”

When Charles says it, it’s a statement, not a question; even so, Arthur is agreeing, nodding as Charles rubs a palm over his crotch. He’s never been more agreeable in his life than when Charles teases him this way.

 

“You’d do anything for it,” Charles continues. He’s not looking Arthur in the eyes, but rather at the hard, insistent bulge in Arthur’s trousers.

“You’d beg for it.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Charles’s hands are unbuckling his belt; the sound of the leather is like a snake through the grass as it slides from Arthur’s belt loops.

 

“Bend over for it.”

 

“Y-yeah.”

 

He’s sliding Arthur’s suspenders from his shoulders; first the left, then the right, all gentle, as if sliding down the straps of a pretty girl’s nightgown.

 

“Spread yourself wide open and whine for it like the whore you are.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, yes, Christ, yes.”

 

He is pushing Arthur’s trousers down, down to his knees; when he bends over, Arthur can feel Charles hot breath on his exposed cock and he groans, rests a hand on Charles’s head, just for a moment.

 

He is struck by his own good fortune then, realizes just how lucky he is. Both he and Charles are alive, against all the odds, and here together in something like love, and he’s about to have Charles’s hot, wet, talented mouth on his cock, sucking on his balls, what did he do –

 

“What if I asked you to wait for it?”

 

The question catches Arthur off-guard, and he stutters, and it gives Charles just the leverage he needs. It’s easy, in that moment, for him to grab Arthur by the collar of his shirt and toss him like a ragdoll to the ground; Arthur can’t even stumble, trapped by his own trousers as he is, and he goes down hard, like a felled tree.

 

Arthur lands on his hands and knees in the soft grass and the leaf litter, and for a moment his head is spinning the way it does during an ambush.

 

Just as quickly, though, Charles is there, a firm, warm presence spread over his back, the bulge of his erection pressed against Arthur’s bare ass, and he is safe. Has never felt safer, maybe, than in that moment, when Charles is using a big, strong hand to push his head down to meet the dirt – he can smell damp soil and Charles’s sweat and the lingering scent of tobacco and it is _good_.

 

With Charles’s hand on the back of his head and his cheek pressed into the dirt, there’s a moment’s silence, a still, tense calm.

 

“You good?” Charles voice is even and steady and surprisingly conversational, all things considered.

 

“Sure,” Arthur grunts. “Won’t be for long if you don’t get a move on, though.”

 

Charles breathes out a small puff of air like a laugh, leans in close to give Arthur a delicate peck on the cheek, and then it’s back to business.

 

“ _Kamwâtapi, kiskânak,_ ” Charles growls, and Arthur doesn’t need to speak Indian to know that means _Stay_.

 

Charles withdraws then, pulls away completely to sit behind Arthur, whose ass is now exposed to the open air and whose back is arched like a horny cat’s. The only point of contact between them is Charles’s hand on his calf, the fond stroking of his thumb.

 

The moon is big and nearly full and bright as a bulb where it hangs in the sky, and it lights everything up in shades of blue and grey. They’re far enough from the light of the campfires so as to not be easily seen, but the moon provides them enough light that when Arthur feels Charles’s scrutinizing gaze on him, it is clear and focused.

 

It’s then, with his ass up and his cock hard and heavy and aching between his legs, that he all at once recognizes the vulgarity of the scene, how thoroughly humiliated he’s been. He’s moaned and begged like whore, been knocked to the ground and _exposed_ , and now he’s lying there, Charles staring at his asshole, of all things, and he’s just waiting to get fucked like the faggot he is.

 

Arthur feels his cheeks go hot, burn with embarrassment, and his cock throbs pleadingly. He’s never wanted anything more than the way he wants to be broken down and used in this moment, however Charles wants to use him – as long as using him involves sticking his cock so far up Arthur’s ass he tastes it.

 

After a long, quiet moment, he caves into it; gasps Charles’s name, as if to make sure he’s still there. Thankfully, that spurs Charles into action.

 

“Boys seemed to like my campfire story tonight,” Charles murmurs, and Arthur groans, a fresh wave of embarrassed thrill washing over him. He’d almost forgot about that.

 

Charles’s hands come up, one to rest on Arthur’s flank like the familiar touch a rancher gives his favourite stallion, the other gently cupping Arthur’s balls, rolling them in his hand just to feel the weight of them.

 

“Maybe I should invite them over,” he muses, as if actually considering it. “Let them take a crack at the real thing, prove just how eager my girl can be, what a desperate slut you really are.”

 

He places a wide palm on Arthur’s ass, drags his thumb slow and dry over his hole just to feel the way it gives, ever so slightly. Arthur’s been practicing, the way Charles had asked him to, in whatever odd spare moment he can find; two greased-up fingers in his own ass, stroking himself off before passing out each night, or during the rare warm bath he treats himself to, or when he wakes up in his tent before dawn with a hard-on and a couple minutes to fuck himself before the sun comes up.

 

All the practice pays off just in the sound Charles makes, a low, soft “oh,” when he presses his thumb against the tight ring of Arthur’s asshole and it relaxes so he can push his thumb in, hook it and pull, ever so slightly.

 

“We could fit them all in here, I bet, one after another after another,” Charles continues. “Javier, Lenny, John… hell, I’d even let Bill get it in you, get you loose and sloppy and wet for me.

“Maybe that’d get you off my back, huh, _kiskânak_? Let them fuck you, one, maybe two at a time, fill you up for me, see how much you can take before you break. Would that satisfy you, stop you begging, stop you being so damn desperate for it?”

 

“No,” Arthur gasps. No, it wouldn’t satisfy him; no, as exciting as the thought is, it’s only fun to think about; no, even in fantasy, he wouldn’t be satisfied until Charles had fucked him, and come inside him thick and sticky; no, even then, he’d still be desperate for Charles’s touch, knows he’ll ache for it 'til the day he drops dead, and maybe even after that.

 

Charles laughs, low like the tumbling of a far-off rock slide, and slaps Arthur’s bare ass hard enough that it stings hot in the shape of Charles’s hand.

 

He goes entirely absent from Arthur’s body again, not touching at all, but Arthur knows he’s still there by the sound of rustling clothes, the clinking of his belt as he unbuckles. The hissing, rasping sound he makes in his throat like the strike of a match is familiar, and Arthur moans in anticipation and humiliated dread. He knows what’s next.

 

Even knowing, Arthur jumps when Charles’s warm, wet saliva hits his asshole and drips down his taint, impeccably aimed – say what you will about faggots like them, but Charles can spit with the best of them.

 

Arthur’s face is so hot he thinks it might bake the moisture from the earth beneath it. His cock lifts and bobs between his legs and leaks slick fluid to drool from the tip to the leaf litter below.

 

“God, Charles, please, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me like a whore, breed me like a bitch, I don’t care, _please_.”

 

 They’ve got no grease with them, nothing to make the glide easy, but Arthur doesn’t care – just wants Charles to finally, finally fuck him proper, doesn’t care if it hurts, as long as he gets Charles’s thick, hard cock shooting off inside him.

 

Charles doesn’t say anything, and it’s not until he’s pushing two wet fingers into Arthur’s ass that Arthur realizes it might’ve been on account of his mouth being busy. With the patient, purposeful, agonizingly slow way Charles pushes his thick fingers inside, Arthur wishes he had something to keep his own mouth busy, too.

 

“Look at that,” Charles murmurs, once his fingers are sunk knuckle-deep in Arthur’s ass. “Easy as anything. Jesus, _nîwah_.” He sounds awed.

 

Arthur reaches back with a free hand to spread himself, just a little; the tips of his fingers find where he’s stretched around Charles’s clever fingers and it makes him whimper.

 

“Please, Charles.”

 

With the way Charles crooks his fingers to stroke at Arthur’s insides, finds that wonderful, gut-tightening, cock-hardening spot that never fails to have Arthur gagging for more, it’s a wonder the man doesn’t have a map  to the spot – then again, practice makes perfect, and they’ve both had plenty of practice, these past few weeks.

 

Between his own high, needy moans, Arthur can hear Charles’s breath, quick and hitching, and the unmistakable sound of Charles hand on his own cock, jerking himself even as he fucks Arthur on his fingers.

 

The realization is bittersweet; on one hand, Charles is getting off to it all, just being there, seeing Arthur with his face in the mud and his ass in the air, taking Charles’s fingers smooth and easy. But on the other hand, it means Charles doesn’t plan on fucking him for real, that Arthur won’t finally get to know the feeling of Charles going off inside him.

 

That realization, that Charles really is going to make him wait for it, draws a miserable groan from him, even as his hips rock back to meet Charles’s probing fingers.

 

“Charles, please,” he gasps again, truly desperate this time. He’s got one hand fisted in the dirt, the other on his ass, so he can’t even stroke himself off as Charles teases that spot inside him – he can feel the familiar pressure of arousal building in him, and he knows he won’t find release with his cock hanging untouched between his thighs.

 

“Fuck, please, _please._ ”

 

Charles just coos, sweet and soft and completely incongruous with the way he’s knuckle-deep in Arthur’s asshole – “patience, _nîwah_ , be good for me,” – before he draws his fingers out and instead uses his free hand to spread Arthur wider; draws the hard head of his cock, just once, from Arthur’s taint, all the way up through his crack to the small of his back.

 

It only takes a few moments more for Charles to grunt in the telling way that Arthur knows means his coming, even before he feels Charles’s spend spatter over his back, the crack of his ass. The sound Charles makes when he presses the tip of his cock to Arthur’s hole, just gently, to finish unloading right there, so close to where Arthur needs him to be, is maddening.

 

Arthur can’t see the look on Charles’s face, after he’s rolled through the final waves of his orgasm, but he’s seen it enough times now to have it memorized; the soft, fond, almost reverent way he looks at Arthur, with kind, dark eyes and a hint of a smile on his quiet, clever lips. Knows the look by the way Charles draws his fingers through the sticky mess of his seed on Arthur’s skin, gentle and tender as if Arthur is something loved, something _worth_ loving. It certainly makes him feel loved.

 

Or it would, if he weren’t so achingly, frustratingly hard.

 

“Charles?”

 

The big man just hums in response. It feels like he’s drawing little hearts in the come on Arthur’s ass.

 

“Charles, if you don’t get something in my ass in the next six seconds, I’m gonna go find another cock to sit on, I swear to Christ.”

 

“ _Kiskânak,_ ” Charles laughs indulgently, and Arthur’s starting to suspect he knows what _that_ word means, too. “I bet Micah would let you take a ride. Should I go get him?”

 

Arthur laughs too, makes a dramatic, retching noise as if the idea makes him physically sick – interrupts himself with a long, low, breathy sound that quickly grows as Charles forces two fingers inside him again, pushing the semen he’s gathered into Arthur’s hole, uses it to make the slide of his fingers slick and smooth.

 

With Charles focused and intense the way he always is after orgasm, it takes him no time at all to have Arthur moaning into his own clenched fist as Charles fucks his jism into Arthur’s ass, hard and fast, and strokes Arthur’s desperate cock firm and efficient with his other hand.

 

In only a few short minutes Arthur is shooting off in the dirt; He comes so hard, he hears his spend hit the ground, again and again and again in overwhelming pulses of pleasure.

 

He’s breathless with it by the time he’s finished, and he’s somehow managed to get dirt in his mouth –knows that there’s dirt under his fingernails and stuck to the side of his face, mixed with his sweat to make mud. He must be the picture of debauched satisfaction, and the way Charles looks at him, he feels dirty and rubbed raw and good.

 

Charles doesn’t even bother to pull Arthur’s pants up for him before he’s lifting Arthur, bridal-style, to carry him off to bed. As they cross the threshold of the dilapidated mansion, Charles gives him a soft, sweet kiss on the lips, feather-light and loaded with unspoken meaning.

 

“ _Nîwah_.”

 

They’re quiet as they creep past Uncle, passed out by the foot of the stairs; stairs that creak as they climb up to Arthur’s modest little room. Other than Charles’s soft footfalls and the groan of the old stairs, the house is quiet and peaceful, and in the dark they can pretend it is like a home.

 

When Charles drops Arthur on the rusty cot, he stretches out over the expanse of it, runs a hand over his chest contentedly – his trousers are still down, hanging from one ankle, and he’s lost a boot somewhere along the way, but he can’t bring himself to care much, at the moment, as bathed in the after glow of Charles’s love as he is.

 

Charles turns his back to light the little lantern on the bedside table.

 

“Charles?”

 

“ _Nîwah_?” Arthur can hear the smile in his voice.

 

“You got a cigarette?”

 

“Sure I do.”

 

Even after everything, Arthur still blushes when he asks, the way he knows Charles wants him to.

 

“Would you light me one… please?”

 

It amazes Arthur how easily Charles has managed to train some manners into a no-good, outlaw savage like him.

 

Dutifully, Charles fishes out a cigarette, lights it and takes a long, deep drag. Holds it in his mouth as he busies himself with pulling Arthur’s pants from his ankle and sliding Arthur’s shirt from his broad shoulders – Arthur doesn’t make it easy for Charles, either, grabbing playfully at the cigarette as Charles tries to tend to him like a mother to a particularly naughty child.

 

It’s not until Arthur is undressed, naked as a jaybird, and Charles has made a valiant attempt at brushing the mud from where it’s stuck to the side of Arthur’s face, that Charles finally settles to sit on the cot, back leaned against the wall so he can cradle Arthur’s head in his lap. Only then does he pass Arthur the cigarette, and Arthur in turn takes a satisfying drag, inhaling deep until his lungs ache with it.

 

Charles can’t stay the whole night in the little, run-down room that has become their secret sanctuary – they can’t be that bold, might not want to be, even if they could. He’ll sneak out the window in the early morning, before the sun comes up. But for now, they’ve got precious, sacred time, and they couldn’t ask for more than that.

 

They spend a long time in companionable silence before drifting off to sleep, Arthur lying naked with his head in Charles’s lap, chain-smoking as Charles fiddles idly with his sandy hair. It’s gotten long, and he hasn’t seen a barber to get it trimmed – with the way Charles runs his hands through it, he may just keep it long like this.

 

 

When Arthur wakes up in the morning, he’ll find a braid tucked behind his ear, and that will convince him that the barber is an expense he can no longer afford. He’ll wear the braid hidden under his hat for the rest of the day.

**Author's Note:**

>  _Moniyasis_ \- white boy  
>  _Nîwah_ \- my wife  
>  _Kiskânak_ \- female dog, bitch, derogatory term for women  
>  _Kamwâtapi_ \- sit still, stay there  
> For notes on the use of Plains Cree and the resources I've used, please see the notes on the first fic of the series, _Like a Lily Alive_
> 
> Also!! In the fic, Arthur is described as not speaking "Indian." This is an artifact of the time and doesn't reflect the truth about indigenous cultures and languages. Where I'm from the term Indian is no longer used, and I recognize that there is no one monolithic indigenous language! But in an attempt at being somewhat true to the period and the character, I done wrote the ignorance. 
> 
> this one turned out real horny fellas........ s o r r y......... i just have a lot of feelings about these...... handsome boys.. ...... and Epilogue Charles.................
> 
> Title comes from Todrick Hall's [T.H.U.G. (Trade)](https://youtu.be/ohUXSs3TbsY).
> 
> You can scream at me about cowboys on [tumblr](https://assless-chapstick.tumblr.com/).


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